


The Lift Limitation

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: First Misses [12]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 16:22:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18318917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten





	The Lift Limitation

_Here we go again,_ Strike found himself thinking as they approached the hotel desk. Him and Robin, checking into a hotel, together but separately, after a pleasant evening in a local pub where they had discussed the progress that they had made on their case that day and got along as well as they always did.

Robin had had a small glass of wine with her meal, and as they were earlier than they had expected, they hadn’t been in a hurry to leave. Conversation had flowed easily and Strike had relaxed into the easy chair, into her company, into the warm ambience of the pub. She’d ordered a coffee after their plates had been cleared - the client was paying, after all - and so Strike had had a third pint, a move he reflected now had been unwise. The local real ale was delicious but also possibly somewhat stronger than he had expected. He realised he was feeling slightly fuzzy-headed despite having consumed a large steak and ale pie, and thoughts he normally kept firmly in check were strolling freely about in his head, making themselves known. Thoughts like how well he and Robin were getting along lately, and surely it would be acceptable to say something now her divorce was through, and surely he wasn’t reading too much into her warm demeanour towards him, and surely she felt the same way.

He shook his head as though that might dislodge such ideas and bring back some sense. Robin pulled the printed email confirmation from her bag and walked up to the waiting desk clerk.

Strike hung back and tried not to look at the back view of her, but then she leaned across the desk to see something on the monitor that the clerk was trying to show her, rising onto her toes. Her suit jacket rode up at the back, revealing her snugly clad bottom and the curve in at her waist, and he couldn’t tear his eyes from her.

 _Stop it,_ he told himself, and firmly turned away and went back out of the front door and onto the terrace, where he lit yet another cigarette and breathed the cool night air and looked at the stars and the passing traffic and the fields, really just anything other than Robin’s arse, while he tried to get his libido under control.

 _You could just say something,_ the devil on his shoulder whispered. _Invite her to your room on some pretext. Something about the case. Order a glass of wine from room service..._

He huffed crossly at himself and stamped his feet. In what universe was that not utterly creepy? The devil had had one pint too many. He took another long drag on his cigarette, and jumped guiltily at the sound of Robin’s voice behind him.

“There you are!” she said fondly. She grinned at him. “Martin used to wander off when Mum wasn’t looking, but she always knew where to find him - in the sweetie aisle looking for Smarties. I know I’ll always find you in the smoking area.”

Strike laughed a little self-consciously and dropped his cigarette end, grinding it out under his heel. He glanced in through the window at the hotel bar. _Bad plan, bad plan, bad plan._

“D’you fancy another drink before we go up?” he heard himself say.

Robin pulled a face, pursing up her lips. “I think I won’t, thanks,” she said. “It’s a long old drive back tomorrow and we should get going early. Thanks,” she said as he held the door for her to step through back into the lobby. “But don’t let me stop you. I’m just going to turn in.”

The thought of the bar without her company didn’t appeal.

“No, you’re right,” he agreed. “Let’s head up.”

They crossed the lobby and stood waiting for the lift.

 _Why is this part always so awkward?_ he thought. He wondered if Robin felt it too. They could spend all day together in the car, in the office, at a little table in the Tottenham, quietly content, but lifts were awkward. Specifically lifts up to separate hotel rooms. The heaviness in the air was palpable.

“Oh.” Robin held up the two key cards she was still holding. “Hotel’s quite full,” she said. “We’re not near each other. I’m on the fifth floor, you’re on the seventh.”

“Okay.” Strike took his card, and the lift arrived. They stepped in, and Robin pressed 5 and then 7 on the keypad. The doors closed and the lift started to slide slowly upwards.

Silence reigned again. Strike swallowed and still couldn’t think of anything to say.

Next to him, Robin gave a tiny, almost inaudible sigh.

A part of him wanted to believe she sounded as frustrated at the distance between them as he felt. He glanced down at her, and she looked up at him, a flicker of something in her gaze that was hard to read but made his stomach lurch.

The devil on his shoulder poked him sharply. He could feel the words forming in his brain, inviting her to his room for a coffee. Panic rose in his heart as he opened his mouth to speak without a very clear idea of what was going to come out.

The lift lurched to a halt with a ping and the doors slid open. Strike took a guilty step back, caught in the act. Almost in the act.

A porter entered the lift with a luggage trolley holding several suitcases and a hatbox. For a wild second Strike found his attention snagged. Did people still use hatboxes? They seemed so...1940s. He blinked. The luggage trolley slid all the way in to touch the back wall, effectively bisecting the lift with Strike in one half and Robin in the other. The porter murmured a greeting and stood, stiff and formal, clad in black and white, holding his foot on the trolley brake. The doors slid closed and the lift began to climb again.

Strike glanced at Robin. His heart was hammering in his chest, adrenaline sloshing around in his veins at the thought that he had so nearly done it, said the words that could never be taken back, that would ruin their friendship for ever.

Or replace it with something better.

Robin looked back at him calmly, her blue-grey eyes on his.

Adrenaline had washed the fuzziness away, and appalled clarity hit. If he ever was going to say or do something, it should be done properly. And sober. A quiet confession over a first pint in the Tottenham. A gentle kiss on her hand, drawing her in to invite more. A lingering goodbye at the end of the day. Robin deserved that at least. What he had been about to do amounted to an indecent proposition. Why else invite a woman to your hotel room if not for sex? That was how it would look, anyway. Sordid, seedy, disrespectful and born of too much beer. Totally inappropriate.

The lift stopped again. They were at Robin’s floor. She was still looking at him, waiting.

The doors slid open.

“Good night,” Robin said quietly.

“Good night,” Strike replied. She stepped out of the lift without looking back and walked out of view. The doors slid closed again.

Strike shuddered a sigh and looked up at the ceiling and told himself he’d imagined the disappointment in her voice.

 


End file.
